


Across Dawns

by Rimetin



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Elder Scrolls, Guild Wars 2 (Video Game), Mass Effect
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2016-11-25
Packaged: 2018-07-25 15:19:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 2,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7537846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rimetin/pseuds/Rimetin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miscellaneous gaming-related shorts, mainly with my own protagonists. See tags and notes of each chapter for more info.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. [ME] Colonist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on a [writeworld prompt](http://writeworld.org/post/40218035857/writers-block-a-picture-says-a-thousand-words). Jack Shepard is my second Shepard from Mass Effect, with background Colonist/Sole Survivor.

He remembers, even if nobody else does.

Mindoir, back in its prime. The calm of the untainted terrain, the peaceful residents and hard-working farmers. The twinkling stars staring down at him at night, unobscured by clouds or light pollution, beckoning, calling to him. That is the Mindoir he carries in his heart: the memories of happiness and prosperity, faces of family and friends. Images of what he once called home.

But what gnaws at him in the dead of the night, at the darkest hour when he lies awake, unable to sleep in the deafening snoring of the other soldiers, is a different Mindoir altogether. No longer the peaceful and quiet colony buried deep in space, full of friendly faces. It’s a dying colony, burning and blood red: the friendly faces twisted in agony, screaming and crying. Each of them falling down, one by one, while all he can do is watch and cower and want to run.

Until the help comes, but it’s already too late: they’re all gone, dead or taken, all the peace and quiet and happiness gone with them.

In the dead of the night, he curls up and covers his ears, memories engulfing him like the black smoke did so, so long ago.

In the dead of the night, he lets his guard down and weeps until he’s dry, until the memories stop, until he can bury them in the back of his mind and forget. Forget the blood and fire and childhood lost, and remember instead the brave little colony on the edge of the Terminus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... Jack's kind of psychologically fragmented. A lot, in fact. The picture on writeworld somehow reminded me of Mindoir, the colony world Jack was from - although obviously I have no idea what it actually looks like, but hey. Just a quick piece showcasing the trauma sustained there. And this is not even touching upon what happened on Akuze.


	2. [DA] Brecilian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meringil Surana is a mage warden, focused on Entropy/Blood Magic, a gray-and-grayer morality bastard in a romance with Morrigan.

“Are they how you’d imagined?”

Meringil turns. “What do you mean?”

“The Dalish. How does it feel to meet other elves?”

He scoffs, and turns away. But Leliana is relentless.

“I imagine they’re very different from elves in the Circle.”

Well what does she expect? Of _course_ they are. Just as different as Chasind are from the humans of Highever. It doesn’t matter that they’re all elves: what matters is that they’re wild, free to roam the world, and he is– well.

He looks up, where the highest treetops hide the sky, towering over them, enclosing them in the silence of the old forest. Brecilian forest is magical; he can feel it, the sparks trickling on his skin and pouring into his bones. It’s both empowering and draining: much different from anything the Circle could ever have offered him. Just the thought of such power sends shivers down his spine.

The light of the sun seeps through the high foliage, pouring puddles of gold everywhere on the mossy ground, rivers to run down the ancient tree trunks. Streaks to play with Leliana’s hair and set it on fire, glint off Alistair’s worn armor, reflect in Morrigan’s eyes and gilding her fair skin. It’s magical, but stagnant. They’re deep in the forest now, and the sound of the river has drowned out, animals are quiet. Nothing moves, not even the leaves above their heads: there is only the golden light, and the eerie sensations dancing on his skin.

Meringil finds himself thinking back to the Circle; this silence, this oppressing atmosphere, is it really any different? Both full of magic, both confining. If this is where the Dalish - his kin - live, doesn’t that make them the same? Same as the elves in cities, cooped up in their sorry alienages: all slaves in their own way.

“Not so very different”, he finally answers, and stalks deeper into the ancient forest, leaving Leliana to stare after him in confusion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, Meringil Surana, my first slash second Dragon Age: Origins character. (It’s complicated - he was supposed to be the first, but then I ended up playing another character instead.) I’ve always loved the way his personality turned out, a manipulative bastard working only for his own profit (and well. Morrigan.) Though this piece just turned into pondering about elves and magic, and I can’t say I’m very satisfied with it. Also, I may not always like Leliana in-game, but she is a delight to write.


	3. [DA] Things Varric never puts in the book, part 682–

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by a [headcanon post](http://dragonage-headcanons.tumblr.com/post/39629152509/hawke-has-the-worst-sense-of-direction-although). Tristan Hawke is my first Hawke, a diplomatic/friendly mage (spirit healer) in a romance with Fenris and friends with literally everyone.

“Hawke, we’ve passed that same rock _ten times now._ ”

“No, I’m sure this time,” Hawke starts, ignoring Aveline’s exasperation. “He said it was right around here–”

“But Hawke,” Merrill interrupts, taking the opportunity to sit down and pick rocks from her soles, “I thought he said it was to the west?”

“We are to the west!”

“Daisy’s right, Hawke. I’m pretty sure we’re to the south, not west. That’s why you keep going in circles.”

Tristan looks at them, then around. When he realizes they’re right his shoulders slump and he sighs, resigned. Aveline nods in approval and takes the lead - and lo and behold, there is their treasure.

“Try to leave this out when you tell the story,” he murmurs to Varric, ears still flaming.

The dwarf laughs. “But of course, my friend.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Dragon Age. Tristan was my very first Hawke - and coincidentally my very first DA character, as I started with DAII and only later finished DAO. It’s a headcanon of mine that he has terrible sense of direction, because I do. And apparently that also extends to games, because I distinctly remember this one time I actually got lost in the Hanged Man. Yes, actually. It's incredible how much I got turned around in a game where every level has basically a static design.


	4. [ME] Those Moments

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on a [writeworld prompt](http://writeworld.org/post/36837339279/writers-block-a-picture-says-a-thousand-words). Amelia Shepard (though technically unnamed here, so you can read this as whoever you will I guess) is my first Shepard, a paragon with Spacer/War Hero backstory.

In times like these, the sky was her comfort.

The thousands of twinkling stars, hundreds of which she could name just off the top of her head, and dozens more she had actually visited: in times like these, they were a constant. The only constant.

For as long as she could remember, those same twinkling lights - not always the same, of course: they were different every time the ship moved, or her parents changed stations - had been there, unchanging. She could always trust in them, know that even when she could not see, they were there. And would always be, long after she - or even Liara - was gone.

Sometimes - very rarely, but sometimes, when the pressure was too much, she would park the mako on a large open terrain and step out. Just to watch the horizon, the night sky, and the stars. The distant lights of a thousand suns in a thousand systems, shining and bringing life to a thousand planets each.

And to her.

Those moments, when the stars twinkled down on her, standing there on the surface of another planet just watching, listening; those moments when she was truly free of responsibility, when the weight of the whole galaxy wasn’t on her; moments when she could just sit down and stay a while, knowing that among those stars she would always find her place;

Those moments were hers to keep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Amelia Shepard, my first and most precious Shepard. Very Paragon, and very much took all matters and burdens on her own shoulders. The picture on writeworld reminded me of some uncharted planets from ME1 and thus, the mako. Which, despite being the most useless piece of shit I’ve ever encountered in my life, also provided some of the most fun I ever had during that game. Exploring uncharted planets may have been meticulous work, even annoying at times, but at least they were pretty. And didn’t have everyone constantly bugging me to solve their problems.


	5. [ME] Duty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on a [writeworld prompt](http://writeworld.org/post/69801324689/writers-block-a-picture-says-a-thousand-words). Shelly Shepard was my third Shepard, with Colonist/Ruthless backstory.

Duty.

It’s a fine line. One she rarely goes beyond. Service is service, death is a likely possibility, true friends a scarce resource.

Ashley.

She grinds her teeth. Ash didn’t deserve what she got. Ash didn’t deserve what _she_ gave her. They never truly clicked, not really, but does that t excuse a commanding officer screwing her troops over? Like Torfan.

Virmire. The one time she let emotion rule her rather than strict sense of duty. And now she carries the ghost of Ash, overshadowing everything she does. Haunting anything she might have with Kaidan. Lurking in the back of her mind when she gives orders. Causing her pause every time she steps out, for _duty_.

All it takes, she supposes, is one life. One single life. Regardless of all those on Mindoir - the thousands of faces she can no longer bother to remember, hundreds of voices calling out to her - or those on Torfan - good soldiers she sent to their deaths, hundreds of batarians she alone mercilessly hunt down - just one is enough.

Out of all the millions of lives taken on her account, just one is enough to smash her to the ground.

Saren Arterius didn’t kill Ashley Williams.

Shelly Shepard did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is more of a character study than anything, really. I’m really fond of the Mass Effect franchise, can you tell? Especially my Shepards. And Shelly is extremely interesting to me, ever since I started playing her. This was just some thoughts after I finished Virmire on her. Not a masterpiece when it comes to the writing, but cool enough for a character study.


	6. [DA] Auriel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on a [writeworld prompt](http://writeworld.org/post/75063623381/days-of-sweat-and-dirt-drew-hard-lines-in-his). Auriel Tabris is a rogue city elf with a very cynical worldview who romanced Zevran.

Auriel Tabris had always been beautiful.

 _Took after his mother_ , people often said. _Apple of his father’s eye_. Dark hair, coarse as any other’s, but neatly brushed and a playful braid on the side. Skin the color of Denerim’s muddy roads, but much more pleasant to look at. A gentle face, appealing to men and women alike.

Until the day.

It seemed far away, now. Duncan’s arrival, Vaughan’s intereference. He’d solved it as best he could, the fair face hiding a sharp mind. But it hadn’t been enough.

That was two months ago.

Auriel had changed. Days of sweat and dirt had drawn hard lines in his face; long days on the road had thinned his features; endless frustration and political struggle tightened his expression. If he returned to the alienage now, they wouldn’t know him to be Adaia and Cyrion’s son.

Not when he couldn’t even recognise himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Auriel is my second city elf, one that gives me a lot of feels. I lost track of where I was going with this piece halfway through, so it kinda cuts short and doesn’t have any point. Might expand on it in the future.


	7. [DA] Princess of Lothering

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on a [writeworld prompt](http://writeworld.org/post/42661421384/writers-block-a-picture-says-a-thousand-words). Eliza Hawke is a humorous mage (blood mage) Hawke with an elf fetish, who eventually ended up stable with Merrill.

Princess of Lothering they called her.

The neighbors, the kids and the parents. Her mother. Especially her father. They all loved her, loved and spoiled her rotten. She walked the streets of the little town like she owned it, because in her mind, she did. And behind her trailed a mob of followers, jealous girls and fascinated boys. Adults sighed when she walked past. Travelers took stories of her all the way to Denerim.

“Look at her go, with such a royal aura!”

She certainly looked the part. And had things gone differently, she truly could be nobility: born on another continent, to another man, she would’ve been lavished with gifts and riches. But born to another man, she would not have the bright red curls she sported: not eyes color of the sea she’d never seen (and, she later supposed, would’ve been happier to have never seen)–

“Truly, she is so wonderful: it must be magic!”

Not the magic rushing in her veins.

Though she never used it, not for attention. Stern words were enough to discourage it. Plus, it wouldn’t have been as much fun. She absolutely loved attention, working for it: to get to bask in it. She enjoyed nothing more than walking down the streets, just walking, having people follow her - whether with their feet or their eyes. And she was determined to give them only the best: dressed in all the finery her father could find for her; had her mother tend to her curly bright red hair; wore the flower crowns woven by little Bethany.

Oh, Bethany. She adored her older sister. But Carver, bitter young Carver - he hated her. All the attention she was getting, the status, the recognition. Such a petty little children’s game, and adults played along. Because of a pretty face and adoring parents’ love.

Years later, he could still clearly remember the adoring stares she got, and her smugness about it.

“You’re still just a spoiled little brat, you know, sister?”

“And you always were just a jealous little baby, Carver. Tell me, are we really so very different?”

No, he supposed, and they laughed. No longer a would-be princess and a sourly younger bother: not even the champion or a warden. They’d outgrown titles like that.

Two bottles of wine were opened and clinked, in a silent toast.

To the ruins of Kirkwall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note to self: stop using the word “adore”. This one is something that’s been in my head for quite a long time, and I'm not really sure if I like how it came out: might have to retry sometime. Eliza Hawke is one of the most important DA protags to me, and I wish I could properly communicate her backstory and inner workings.


	8. [ES] Things you learn on the roads (and the woods, and the cities, and the waters, and…) of Skyrim, a memoir by Farendar the Wood Elf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Farendar is my first Dragonborn, a kleptomaniac wood elf archer with no concept of ethics.

  * There’s a war.
  * Which really shouldn’t have come as such a surprise, but then again, knowing that would have required paying attention.
  * Paying attention is hardly the first thing to cross a young elf’s impulsive mind when there’s adventure to be had, things to steal, game to hunt…
  * But the war is nevertheless somewhat of a big deal, apparently.
  * People fighting said war are touchy.
  * ..and will execute you simply for being there.
  * Also, apparently “trespassing” is a thing in Skyrim.
  * A silly concept, really. And surely not enough to warrant a man’s execution.
  * (But seriously, if you can’t even secure your purse and lock things properly, you don’t even really deserve to keep those things, now do you?)
  * But that’s beside the point.
  * Dragons. Very LOUD dragons, at that.
  * Kind of like the people themselves, actually.
  * Speaking of the people, they’re an unfriendly lot. Also fitting, given the unfriendly land they live in.
  * Well, except the Argonians, maybe. Hard to be angry at people who fish you out of the freezing waters (literally) and stick you beside a fireplace. And don’t even turn up your pockets while you shiver and sputter!
  * But such kindness shouldn’t go unrewarded, so what better way for a scrawny Wood Elf to prove it than by roughing up some uppity Nords in the city for the good of his saviors?
  * (Really though, expecting a man who can fell a wolf with one arrow from a hundred yards to NOT have some power in his fists as well is just foolish.)
  * Sadly that power doesn’t always help in the harsh lands of Skyrim.
  * Because cats can see better in the dark than elves.
  * No, not Khajiit - well, them, as well, but they don’t try to jump you and gnaw your face off in the night.
  * What we learned: next time, stick to the roads.
  * And buy a horse.



**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly don't what to say about this. I saw this format of stroytelling on tumblr and wanted to try it for myself - not nearly as graceful as those that inspired me, but oh well. Also written in a time when I didn't really know that much ES lore, but Farendar's story is precious to me.


	9. [GW2] Lunatic Inquisition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Submission to a Guild Wars 2 guild Halloween writing contest.

He stumbles down the rocky path, almost crashing into the wall as he rounds the corner into a dead end. The wall bubbles and boils: from it, a ghastly skull emerges, blood red and laughing at him. He curses under his breath, turning on his heels and immediately trips over cobwebs and rubble. He hears the skull sneer at him, thinks he hears running footsteps and courtier screeches in the night. He spits blood as he gets up and stumbles out of the dead end, ducks into the next alley and runs until he crashes down again, wheezing blood and sweat.

He hears a scream in the distance. Was that Christina? Lucille? Maybe it was Brent. He doesn't know: not sure he cares, either. Anymore. He's been part of this deadly game for far too long to worry for any others. He realizes, with a dull ache, that he can't even remember their faces.

He grits his teeth and scrapes his fingers on the gravel. He needs to get up. Needs to run, needs to hide. Survive the night. He hears rustling somewhere behind him and scrambles to move off the path, pressing his back firmly against the wall. He feels blindly for anything to defend himself with: his fingers find something long and sleek, light and cold in his hand. He brings it closer to his face and sees it's a bone. A while ago – a lifetime, it feels like – it would have shocked him. Disgusted him. Now, he grips it tightly, feeling its form and weight. It's not much, but it might be enough to buy him time.

He starts down the cobblestones again, holding the bone to his chest as a scared child might his favorite stuffed toy. How long until dawn? He glances into the sky, where the mad moon peers down at him, laughing at his struggle. He can't tell. Nights and days blur into one and he just _doesn't know_.

He's so tired. Just as he thinks he might just give in, lay down and let go, something snaps under his foot and flames burst from the ground, blinding him, burning him. He cries out from surprise and pain, shielding his face with his arms as he stumbles forward and drops to the ground, rolling to quench the flames feasting on his clothes and his flesh. Now he's sure he hears footsteps, the mad dancing steps of a dozen courtiers, and their screeching laughter and rabid joy. 

Smoke and the smell of his own burnt hair and flesh sting his eyes as he struggles to get to his feet before the courtiers' claws reach him. He sees one of them from the corner of his eye and chucks his bone at it, rushing past as it shrieks from disappointment and sways in place, stunned by the hit. He dodges to the side as another lunges at him from a side alley he passes, its shrill cry freezing his heart and nearly his feet.

He runs and he runs, but they follow. Until at last he rounds a corner, jumping over rubble and cobwebs, and finds himself face to face with a blood-red skull, howling in lunatic laughter.

He hears the courtiers closing in, and knows it's over. He's lost the game. He closes his eyes, trying to drown the cacophony of courtier screeches and mad laughter in a hum of his own.

_"So lend me your ear and I'll fill it with fear, as I sing of the Mad King Thorn…"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is about Lunatic Inquisition, the PvP minigame that they removed a few years back. Which is a shame cos I really liked it. I put way too much into this piece, considering I wasn't even eligible to win anything... Everything in this relates to the minigame in some way, if you're not familiar with it I really suggest you wiki it! The red skull, the bone, and the flame trap are all things that were in it. Either way this was really fun to do and I haven't written properly in way too long so it was good practice.


End file.
